Take Heed
by Bossy Mossy
Summary: Collection of SpeedDemon/DamianxIrey oneshots and drabbles, ranging in rating and genre.
1. Chapter 1

"Are you okay?"

The room was almost silent except the shy fluttering of papers on his desk. It was her fault, she knew, but he wasn't asleep - she could tell by his breathing and his almost death-like stillness. Damian wasn't a still sleeper, never had been, not since she'd known him anyway.

"Tt." It was nothing more than a grunt, a noise at the back of his throat, but she could see the whites of his eyes in the moonlight and heard the soft movement of the blankets as he picked them up, an invitation. He didn't have to say anything, and with the slowness of someone taking extreme care, Irey found herself under the sheets, facing the dark-haired boy.

"Did you get hurt?"

"...No."

"Damian..."

"I'm not a child, West. Don't concern yourself." The soft kiss against his cheek, almost a warning but tender and caring, caused him to inhale loudly. She hesitated, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling herself in close to him, forehead against the pulse in his neck.

It was silent again, his soft breathing and her fingers tracing patterns down his back, sending gentle vibrations into the muscles to help unwind them. It seemed like ages to the speedster - knowing Damian, it could have been - before he sighed, pressing his lips against her forehead.

"There are days..." he murmured, breath hot against her skin, "...are times, when you truly realize how human you are."

"Oh, Dami.." That was all he had to say. There wasn't a lot of room between them to begin with, but Irey closed any distance between them, the hug around his waist tightening, biting her lip. "You'll be alright. I promise."

"I never said I wouldn't be, West." His tone was just as cold as it had been minutes before, before his soft confession, but the way his grip tightened in the fabric against her back and how he placed his chin on top of her head, encompassing her, told her he hadn't quite recovered from whatever he'd seen; whatever he'd been a part of.

"I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

"...I know, Irey." A soft sigh. "I know you will."


	2. Chapter 2

"Wayne."

Someone less trained would have jumped or flinched; someone less trained would have called out, startled, at the voice in his ear. But Damian had been trained his entire life and her voice almost blended in with the patter of the rain and the rumble of the thunder, threatening of a storm that wasn't on the forecast. He didn't even glance at her, noting the reddish hue in the corner of his eye that abruptly disappeared when his mentor stiffened.

Neither of them spoke until Batman turned back around, aware of a presence he wasn't seeing, and then the red appeared in the corner of his eye again.

"I'm patrolling, West."

"Can I get a kiss?"

"I'm busy."

Bruce suddenly turned around, glaring at the space that had previously been occupied by the speedster. It was dark in the alleys they were wandering through, water still drizzling evenly and puddling in the cracked pavement. Damian motioned to the open apartment window several stories up, not saying a word as his father tilted his head back. Seeming to find the answer agreeable to what he was hearing, he continued on. His heavy footfalls and the rumble above made him ignorant to the redheaded girl as she reappeared.

There was nothing more than a muffled grunt as Irey yanked Damian back behind the corner they'd just turned, and before the dark haired boy could inject anything to stop her, she had her hands on the front of his vest, pulling him forward. Their noses bumped and he almost swore, but before he could get the word out into the humid air she was kissing him.

His resolve wasn't as it should have been, Irey noted. He didn't fight it, and she made careful not to tug too hard on his costume. His hood fell and the rain began to drizzle into his hair much like it was his; he forced her back a few steps, pinning her between himself and the brick wall of the apartment building, the roof several stories up keeping the rain from saturating his hair any further.

"We will be having a talk when we get back to the manor."

Irey startled, her flinch causing her to bite down on Damian's lower lip that she had been pulling and knocking her head against the brick wall behind her. She glanced up at the towering man behind Damian, who backpedaled to stand beside his father, his face hard to read past the green mask. The Batman was an entirely different story, and she found it hard to face him as he stared down at her. His jaw set, drawing in a deep breath.

And like that he swept away, his cape billowing behind him and a firm hand on Damian's shoulder. Irey turned to leave.

"I will be contacting your father, Iris. Perhaps he would be interested in learning why you're patrolling Gotham and not Keystone."

The horrified gasp and the splash as she ran away caused Bruce to chuckle, planting his hand in Damian's short locks.

"What am I going to do with you kids..."


	3. Chapter 3

"Alfred."

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Tell me..." Bruce's voice was quiet, ridden with emotions to the point that his butler couldn't discern what was going to follow. The soft noises of a rag against glass and the cups lightly clinking against each other filled the silence as he chose his words. "Have I put too much trust into Damian, or his comrades?"

Alfred paused in his position behind the bar. He put down the glass he was cleaning, eyes glued to the wall of computers Bruce was currently sitting at. It was plastered with Skype logs and text messages; he absentmindedly picked up another glass, the old man made his way closer to the screens.

"I do not believe it to be anything of your doing," he said, rubbing at the glass, the light reflected in it's surface. Bruce sighed, fingers tapping away, pulling up more logs and various pictures that Damian had been sent. "He is a teenage boy... Boundaries rarely seem important at his age."

Bruce clicked on a file, opening up the picture like he had done with countless others. The glass Alfred was holding fell from his grip and shattered on contact with the floor, and all was silent in the cave as they both stared at the very much nude redheaded girl in the photo.

"I... I do not think it is Damian you have to worry about, sir."

The man growled, keys smashing under his fingertips as he pulled up Damian's Skype interface. It didn't take more than a minute for the girl to notice he was online and pull him into a video chat, and with one click the smiling West was displayed on the screen.

"B...Bruce?" She said, her expression faltering at the sight of him and his frown. She was propped up on her elbows, the only light in her room being the laptop she had on her bed. She reached up, adjusting the neck of her shirt. "Are... you okay?"

"I would be much better, Iris, if I hadn't just come across your picture in Damian's files."

There was nothing but background noises from inside the West household as Irey sat there, her eyes wide, and it took her several long moments before she could will herself to speak.

"Oh."

"You don't want me to forward that onto your father, do you?"

"N—No, sir."

"I don't want to see another picture of you - dressed or _otherwise_ - on my monitor."

"Yes, sir."

She abruptly cut her feed, and a new text message popped up onto the log he had been monitoring.

_Batman knows._


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes they just sat on top of the manor roof top, wrapped up in a spare comforter and their knees pulled up to their chest, enough space between them to be comfortable but not enough that they got cold. Damian was never one for touching, but Irey couldn't help the contact, the way their knees bumped or her foot hit his boot.

"You can't really see the stars, can you..."

"Patience. Half of Gotham still has their lights on."

She sighed, curling up tighter into her blanket and staring up at the cloudless sky, a flickering red light signaling the New York airport miles and miles away. She could hear the airplanes taking off and leaving, the sounds of cars and people getting off and going to work, drunks stumbling down the street. It wasn't quite conventional nor romantic, but it was ridiculous to ask for anything more in the life they lived.

The stars shined and their breath turned into fog, and with a smile Irey kissed his cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

"Aren't you ever afraid?"

Her question was met with silence, so high in the sky with so much further to go, sitting between them. It wasn't uncomfortable; it wasn't a question begging for an answer, and her words weren't filled with any emotion that would have demanded a sooner response.

Irey tilted her head back, looking up at the stars, the few that dared to dot the Gotham sky. She could hear traffic under them slow and stop and begin again, sighs from walkers and bribes from the prostitutes under the bridge. They weren't the criminals Batman and Robin dealt with, and their quiet being wasn't enough to bother the two sitting on the streetlight.

She had darted up; he'd used a Birdarang. Neither had really considered how to get down, but they both sat, perched above the city.

She swung her legs, careful not to obstruct the lighting and cause a disturbance. Their own being was as invisible and as miniscule as the prostitutes and the walkers, and they went both unobserved and unbothered. He let out a sigh, shaking his head and glancing at her.

"Tch, no. Why would I be?"

The answer seemed to simple to her; he was fragile, too fragile, only human. If she were to fall from here, she could correct herself before hitting the concrete. Injuries weren't important as they never stayed long. His bruises lasted a week; hers lasted a half hour.

Maybe he wasn't afraid for himself, but she was for him, and as he reached up to run a hand through his hair, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. His skin was cold and stubbly, a scratch punctuating her thoughts. He was only human, no matter how hard he bristled or how much of a front he put up, and the blush he chose not to acknowledge caused her to smile.

"No reason, D."


	6. Chapter 6

"You're _childish_."

"No, I act my age. There's a difference._You_ don't act your age."

Damian sneered at her, hands in his jacket pockets and a subdued scarf around his neck. He was only half listening to her, standing under one of the many partially naked trees in the manor's back lawn.

It was rare the trees got a chance to show their true colors in Gotham; there was no such thing as in between in the place he called home, and he had learned this first-hand. It was bitterly cold or sweltering, and usually the frost hit as the trees began to turn yellow, and they never fought it. There wasn't any rusts or burnt shades that he was seeing now, scattering in the yard and piled up under the trees, occasionally dotting the green lawn as the wind blew.

"Tch, at least I don't make a mess."

"Damian, they're _leaves_." She rolled her eyes, picking up the different shapes and shades as she walked away from him. "They're meant to make a mess." She paused, bending over to grab a dark red, her arms full as she approached him again. He eyed her warily.

"And what do you plan on doing with _th_—"

She threw her hands in the air, the leaves taking flight and falling just as quickly, finding their footing on the dark haired boy's hair and shoulders. A grin appeared on her face and she began to laugh.

Damian blinked at her, taking in her expression and the non-threatening leaves that found their way to the ground, her smile and her messy hair and the shades in her scarf that seemed to mesh with everything around her. The laughter, as light as the leaves as they wove their way to the ground, twirling and zig-zagging.

He hesitated, one of the few times he ever had, and as soon as he realized what he had allowed himself to do, he turned on his heel.

"Go home," he said bitterly, leaving her among the rusts and the shades of her hair and the leaves that seemed none the wiser of that had suddenly occurred in the boy's head.

She did.


	7. Chapter 7

"This is ridiculous. You got this from some movie, didn't you?"

"No!"

"Liar."

"Could you quit being such a buzz kill and let me have this one thing, please?"

"Ttch, you say that every time."

"And you let me get what I want every time."

She couldn't help but grin as she grabbed his hand, towing him out from under the awning they were huddled under. The sky was gray with rainclouds and the drains at the edge of streets were having a hard time keeping up with the sudden rainfall. It was midsummer and the humidity had been rising for days; and although the downpour had not been on the forecast, Gotham was glad to get a relief from the triple digits.

That didn't mean they wanted to get caught out in the rain, and many huddled under shop awnings and waited in stores, hoping for the rain to subside long enough for them to get their groceries out to the car. Damian and Irey had been among them; in an attempt to get out of the manor for an hour or two, he had silently decided to go and get the ingredients for the night's dinner. Irey had tagged along.

He was regretting it. The heat was more than he had expected and it even rendered Irey quiet, hair tugged high off the back of her neck. They might have both been hard working heroes, but most of their crime fighting occurred after dark, when it was the coldest.

"Besides," she said, pulling him closer to her until their stomachs bumped together. Their hair was saturated, her loose locks sticking to her jaw and her forehead. His shaggy cut did much the same, and he had to reach up and push it out of his eyes. "You can't say you won't like it."

She stood up on the tips of her toes, catching him in a kiss that was hotter than the air around them, her hands on his damp shirt.

They were silent the entire way back to the manor; their dripping clothes and clasped hands raised more questions than answers.


	8. Chapter 8

"You know, you can drive a motorcycle, but I can drive a _stick-shift_…"

Damian pulled an illegal U-turn, the cycle dipping at a dangerous angle as he sped off in the opposite direction. He could feel her smirk pressed into his shoulder.


	9. Chapter 9

"I see you picked the dress I suggested."

"Well, duh, Wayne. You liked it. Of course I'd wear it."

Their footfalls were louder here than they had been in the ballroom, couples dancing and eating treats. He had seen his father speaking with Grayson, both firmly distracted by the tanned, red-headed girl the younger man had on his arm.

"You all have something with gingers, don't you?"

"Tch, what are you talking about, Iris?"

"Nothing. Nothing." Irey shook her head, glancing around in the hallway they had escaped into. Old photographs and paintings dotted the walls periodically, doors coming every now and then. Damian was caught off guard as Irey paused, reaching over to a door they came across and fumbling with the handle.

"You _do_ know that is a closet?"

"I do now."

It wasn't locked and swung open, and with a grunt of surprise she tugged him in and shut the door behind them. He caught a glimpse of a grin on her face, her breath tickling her cheek.__

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing more than a syllable came out before she kissed him. That was all it took; he didn't bother speaking any further, his disdainful confusion from a few moments ago disappearing. She smelled like lotion and lipstick, running her fingers through his hair, nails on his scalp.

"Was a closet really necessary? We could have found a much more suitable place—"

"Oh, shush." She drew in a breath, and he felt her move, but unable to see what she was doing. "You've never done something on a whim before, have you?"

"…Tch, no."

He could practically hear her roll her eyes, letting out a laugh. Damian felt her before he heard her move, planting another kiss on his lips, softer this time than before. The door opened slightly, the redhead peering out, before opening the door fuller. He could only catch a glimpse of her pink cheeks and how she tugged at her dress before she was back out in the hallway, the click of her heels telling him he needed to follow behind.

The red-head was still speaking to Bruce, head tilted and eyebrows brought together in a bit of confusion. It didn't take long for the oldest Robin to catch sight of them, Irey holding his hand behind his back, tracing patterns on the back of his hand as they approached.

Both of them paused in surprise as the grown man began to sputter in laughter, elbowing Bruce in the ribs and tilting his head toward the teens.

"What is _so_ funny, Grayson?" He snapped, narrowing his eyes and taking a few steps closer to the trio. In an expression that nearly mirrored his sons, Bruce looked between the two teens.

"Perhaps next time, you will consider going to the bathroom before returning to the party."

"I do not understand what you're implying." A sneer. "We've been here the whole time, father."

"You have lipstick on your face, Lil' D," Dick cut in, grinning at the pair. Damian grabbed ahold of Irey's hand again, taking off down the same hallway they'd just come from.

"You're going to remove that from my face."

"I'm _sorry_!It's not suppose to come off!"

Dick's heckling could be heard down the hall.


	10. Chapter 10

The only thing Damian could liken her freckles to was spattered blood, merciless and messy and stark against her pale skin. Her hair hung in weak waves and dripped down her back as she dug through his closet for the single pair of sweats he owned, listening to his keyboard clicking and her soft humming in the background.

"I have bought you a pair of jeans you can wear, you know." His voice was distracted, glancing over at her and then staring. She had walked in while he was doing a stake-out report for his father, going over hours of footage. He had returned home when the moon was going down and it was now early morning, sun trying to peak between his curtains, and just like clockwork she had figured out he was back at the manor. He hadn't expected her to use his shower, but she had been patrolling as well, and although neither of them had spoken of it, they both knew it had been a rough night in both cities. He was still in his Robin costume and hers was in his dirty laundry hamper, where she'd tossed it when she had come back from his attached bathroom.

The last thing he had expected was for her to be naked, her towel on the floor as if she hadn't thought he'd look. But he was, taking in her freckles and the scars that dotted her back and her shoulders, how long her hair was and the water beads that fell from her curls to the curve of her back-

"Do you mind getting dressed? I am trying to do work, Irey."

"Why? Distracted?" She had found his sweatpants, far too long for her. When he looked back up, his typing ceasing yet again, she was crawling up onto his bed.

"Just a little."

He couldn't help his smirk when she kissed his cheek, curling up with his pillow and watching him work without a word as the sun continued to rise. When Alfred came up to inquire about breakfast hours later, he found both teens asleep, the laptop closed on the floor and the alarm shrieking.

He unplugged the alarm, shut the curtains, and didn't say a word to Bruce.


	11. Chapter 11

"Please?"

"Iris. This is _foolish_."

She watched as his face contorted in the shadows, mouth opening to create another retort and quickly shutting it when he heard his mask crackle, a sign that his father was obviously listening in on his activities now. He reached up, pinching the sides of his mask to muffle and block the Batman's sight and hearing, a sigh escaping his lips.

"You aren't meant to be here. You need to leave."

"I'm not hurting anyone, Damian."

Her voice was soft and for a moment he could hear the hurt that came so often when he brushed her off, when he was too busy to talk or too monitored to do as he really wished, and with a deep breath he felt his shoulders slack. His grip on the monitors loosened, and he simply peeled the mask off where they stood in the alleyway, their only company being trash containers and the clouds overhead. He doubted his father could see much in the darkness anyway, and heard the crackling as Bruce breathed, the sound further away now.

"Do you understand why this is so dangerous, Irey?" He said softly, eyebrows knitted together. His mask dangled in one hand, his forefinger and thumb still muffling their conversation, eyes so blue they seemed depthless gazing at her. For once Irey wasn't sure what to say.

"I know, Damian." That soft tone again, wide eyes staring into his own. He watched as she drug her lip between her teeth, pausing. "I just—… I know it's dangerous. That's why I come."

"But you put me in danger by distracting me from my work."

"…I'm sorry."

It wasn't the first time they had had this conversation, but it held a serious tone that it never had before, the ginger glancing between his guarded expression and the bruise that was forming on his cheek. She had seen it go down, she had seen the entire fight and hadn't stepped in. It wasn't her city. It wasn't her fight.

"You put _yourself_ in danger, Irey."

"You don't think I don't know what I'm doing?" Her voice stung, harsh in how concerned they were. "I'm not a child, Damian. I know better."

"Then why must you check on me as if _I_ am a ch—"

There was silence between them as his mask spoke suddenly, cars going by and casting shadows, revealing more injuries than she'd noticed before. His mask crackled again, Batman finally aware of the conversation. Damian hadn't been as careful as he thought.

"Robin, what are your coordinates?"

He tore his eyes from her and looked at the electronic in his hand, knowing all too well the consequences that came with not following his father's orders.

"Negative. I will return to the cave promptly. Until then, off grid."

"_Robin_—"

He could deal with his father later, looking back up at the girl in front of him. She had pulled her eyebrows together, tears welling in her eyes, unable to look at him.

"I love you, Damian, but you're not invincible." She reached up and wiped the blood from his lip, watching as he winced and jerked away. "I never know what fight you're getting into or what type of person you're up against. I don't. You're _human_."

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, putting a hand on her waist and pulling her in, the spandex slick against his glove. He felt her wrap her arms around his torso, grunting as she brushed a tender spot, but she wasn't fooled.

"You're only human."

"I know." Another car went by, honking loudly, but neither seemed bothered. He leaned down and planted a kiss on her forehead, the skin on his lower lip raw and still bleeding, and he lingered as he spoke. "But you have to trust that I will be okay. You cannot risk either of us with worry."

"_Damian Wayne, report to the cave_."

The snarl went ignored. He reached under her chin, lifting it up so she would look at him, not surprised to see the tears still in her eyes.

"I can trust you. But you can't ask me not to worry. Even your father is concerned."

Her statement hung in the air; a hand went to his cheek, standing on the tips of her boots to kiss him, the motion tender and loving. The hand on his waist pulled her even closer, returning the motion with just as much emotion as she had given him, and as she settled back onto her feet he replaced the mask on his face.

"Robin?"

"Mmm?"

His footfalls were heavy as he stepped toward a fire escape, easily bounding up and landing on the railing with little noise. He offered her a glance, his eyes hidden, any emotion gone.

"Be safe."

She heard his chuckle as he leapt up to the top of the building.

He waited until she disappeared, leaving nothing but a breeze in her wake, before he made his way home.


	12. Chapter 12

"Why are you _crying_?"

"I— I—"

He hadn't expected to come in through his window and have her standing in his room, the relieved expression on her face at the sight of him melting into something he couldn't decipher. Damian stood there, ripping his mask off and sitting it on his desk, fixing his gaze on her.

"How long have you been here?"

"…I never left."

Her voice barely carried whereas his was a hiss, wiping at her eyes. She was wearing a pair of his pajamas, the waist scrunched at how tight she had pulled the drawstring in her attempt to keep them from falling down, and one of Dick's shirts was knotted on the small of her back. The only light in the room came from her fairy lights, the ones he had scoffed at when she put up - _"What do you think this is, your room?"_ - illuminating their distance and her red eyes. Damian noticed not for the first time just how small she was as he took a step closer, unhooking his cape and letting it fall to the floor.

"Let me get changed," he murmured, closing the distance between the two of them. Her shoulders shook, covering her eyes to hide her tears, and what whimpering was coming from her seemed to cease as he pressed a reassuring kiss on her forehead. "And then we'll talk. Try to calm down a little."

She took a seat on the edge of his bed, and he listened as she drew in a noisy breath. It was still made on his side from where he had left her hours earlier to go patrol. She had been asleep; it wasn't an unusual thing for him to depart and return before she woke up. But that didn't seem to be the case this time. She removed her hands from her face, letting out a hiccup as she tried to calm her breathing, watching him. He did things methodically, unhooking his vest and then the Kevlar shirt from underneath it, unlacing his boots and letting the steel-toe clunk against the wooden floor. Finally she felt his weight shift onto the center of the bed, pulling her into his lap like she was a child, chin finding it's place on the top of her head.

"What _happened_?"

She hid her face in his neck, and for several minutes she just sat there, listening to him breathe and the silence in the air. Her voice came up muffled, bashful almost, and for a second he wasn't sure she was even speaking.

"…I… woke up and you weren't here."

She felt his breath pause, in thought almost, and then his arms wrap around her torso. He smelled like rain and metal and faintly of blood, the idea making her sniffle and curl closer to his chest.

"Tch, is that really all? —Damn it, Irey, that _hurt_—"

"Don't patronize me." She removed her nails from his chest, a small smile on her face, before tilting her head back to kiss his jaw.

"Really, Iris. Was that all you were worried about?"

"…Mmhm."

"Heaven forbid something actually _happened_…"

"I'm warning you."


	13. Chapter 13

Her suit doesn't do her justice.

No matter how closely the spandex clings or how little clothing she chooses to wear underneath, Damian knows there's a vast difference between how she looks in the yellow and red suit then how she does when she's getting dressed.

The curves and the sharp edges of her elbows are the same, the line of muscles that flex when she walks are the same. The shadows and the slight raises in the fabric where scars were hidden were the same no matter the clothing - it was identical, but in different contexts and clothing and states of dress, Irey couldn't have been more dissimilar.

She always undressed after patrols before he did; break ins and attacks and footage were more important than his comfort, and before she could even take her boots off, he'd found a perch on their bed, laptop casting a towering shadow of the Batman against the wall. He'd outgrown his sidekick mantle. She hadn't yet, the suit still the same, worn and repaired in torn areas. Damian would have simply gotten a new shirt, a new pair of pants, but it was obvious she was trying to decide a new moniker and pick a new outfit by how little she cared about the image she put out. Impulse wouldn't be for much longer; the messy sewing jobs and worn holes from sliding could stay.

It was the same every night, the same routine, the same yawn and weight on the end of the bed as she sat and unlaced her boots. The identical twin thumps and then the weight disappeared, and it was then that Damian would glance up.

The suit came in two pieces, something he had never noticed until they were together. Until they started patrolling together. The top was similar to a gymnast's leotard, and below it were the footed bottoms. She would get one leg out and then pull the top off over her head before she removed the bottom, the toes and heel wearing threadbare, he noticed. She wore nothing under her suit except a sport's bra, something that joined the floor as quickly as everything else.

If she ever noticed him watching, she never spoke of it. They shared light conversation as she paraded through his room, to the chest of drawers at the end of his bed where her clothes were stashed. It was always then he noticed the scars, the exact scars, so similar but different in how they were portrayed under the spandex. Some were puckered and raised from cuts and scratches, others spanned a wider portion of her skin and were sunken. The burn on her lower back, the scrape under her right breast from a too close bullet when she had taken a blink too long to escape. The mark on her left hip that mimicked the floor of an alley that he was sure she could pinpoint if he asked.

In this time, he could see things the suit wouldn't allow. The fresh and old bruises, how her skin was red and swollen in certain areas, the yellow and blue and purple places. He could see how oddly her fingers seemed to twist from numerous breaks, brand new scars from injuries that had just occurred that night or the one before, superficial and flat against her skin. The shadows and how the light laid on her skin was different than before, without her suit smoothing everything out. Even the smallest nicks had their place and their shadow, bangs against her eyebrow, freckles dotting her skin.

She would pull her underwear on and then her bra, and it was that moment that he always noted. Irey was a different lady than Impulse, who was all muscles and no nonsense and a tight-lipped, sassy sense of humor. Impulse, with her stiff shoulders and rigid posture and small, gloved hands, with the tight ponytail and taut muscles, waiting to attack or run or stay planted.

Irey was completely different, and the suit was the only thing that separated her from her other identity. Irey had a curve to her shoulders and the back of her legs that was more feminine when she wasn't prepared to fight, when she felt safe enough to relax. Her hands were even smaller without the added fabric, nails painted meticulously, something he knew she took a lot of care in doing - but he had never heard her complain when she would have to use her fists and he would see her cropping all her nails to align with the broken one.

Impulse had her good points, but they were few when compared to Irey. Impulse, who made sure to wear a flattening bra and wore one of the more modest suits in the league, who wanted to make sure her strength wouldn't be questioned just because she chose to flaunt her breasts or the curve of her waist. That bore no resemblance to the Irey who stood before him, with her patterned bra and barely-there underwear, with her pride and insecurities when it came to her body. Impulse covered it up to ward off comments, hands, to keep anything from getting in the way. When it was just the two of them and both their masks were off, Irey had no qualms with making sure he knew what she possessed.

The suit may have just dictated the differences between her two halves, but he knew better than to assume her other identity went away when she stripped. Her muscles still danced under her skin and her tight squeeze when she held his hand were both evidence of what she was after dark.

Just like the night before and the night before, she pulled her hair down, meticulously brushing it out and watching the surveillance footage he had recovered.

Maybe Damian was biased, but he didn't think her suit did her person justice.


	14. Chapter 14

"Maybe we can get married."

There was a soft trill of laughter from the girl as Damian's face twisted, both too exhausted to sleep as the sun rose behind them. Even with the curtains pulled, light pooled on the floor and on the walls, in the space where the fabric didn't meet. He was readying for a scoff, she knew by how his nose wrinkled and his eyebrows came together, the light catching his eyes just right and shining.

"Go to sleep, Iris."

"But could you _imagine_?"

She scooted closer, her voice hushing in excitement, a delirious grin splitting her face. They were both worn, coffee being their only source of energy after a long patrol night. Damian had arrived home too early in the morning to even bother with sleep, knowing publicity stunts and other daily Wayne activities wouldn't wait on him to get a few hours of sleep. He had things planned and things planned for him, a tux fitting for Stephanie's wedding and then lunch with the bride-to-be, an attempt to get the press of of his redhead's trail. "We could. We totally could. We could go to Vegas and get it done there over night or we could just go up to the court house and—"

"My father and your father would collectively slaughter me!" Another bubble of giggles, reaching down to snag his hands, rough and scarred and calloused surrounding her own. His hands were larger, thicker, dark enough to make her own look like porcelain. There was a soft squeeze, her own calloused fingers grazing his own.

"— Or we could do like Steph and Jason are doing, you know, and just have something tiny and not expensive. And then the press could shut up about how Gotham's Prince is _settling_, because we would be totally happy. Oh, Damian. I want this so much."

Even with the light to her back, the rising sun's hues just outlining the curve of her hip and the copper tint of her hair on his pillow, Damian couldn't help but notice the joy in her eyes. She knew better, and he knew better than to remind her of such. They would have to wait; it had only been a few months ago that he allowed himself to be seen out in public with her, not wanting to risk her life or her reputation. It hadn't taken long for either. Her name was plastered across tabloids and magazine covers and newspaper, few good words said about Damian's love interest. Two weeks ago they had proclaimed her too skinny; a week later, the same tabloid website had seen a baby bump that wasn't there.

None of them seemed to faze her, bringing their hands up to her face to graze her lips against his knuckles, that smile still on her face and the cogs turning behind her eyes. "And then, we can give them something else to bitch about, because we would have _the_ cutest babies. Well, baby. Babies." Her expression changed, if only slightly, "hopefully, babies. I mean, you being _normal_ and all, I don't know how easily that kind of thing would happen, but _Damian_. Do you see it?"

"It is too early to be thinking about children."

"Oh, you're no fun."

She had wiggled herself against him, knees and legs intertwined, hands still grasping his. She listened to him yawn, eyelids fluttering, even though she knew he wasn't going to sleep. His alarm was due to go off in a half hour.

"The press would have a fit!" She was whispering now, lips against his ear, close enough that he could hear her breathe. "Little ginger Wayne babies. I don't think your father would be too happy, either. He seems to like his boys dark-haired."

"_Iris_!" His voice raised, too amused by her babbling to scold. "Go to _sleep_. We can worry about a child when the time comes. We have all the time in the world."

"And we could get married in that awesome gothic church down town, you know, with the gargoyles?"

If only she knew he and Stephanie weren't only having lunch.


	15. Chapter 15

He knew better than to have disappeared in the middle of a family event, and to such a predictable place. Any one of his children or their significant others knew where to find him; and if they had been around long enough, had collaborated on enough missions and stake-outs, they knew which keys to press and what bookcases weren't what they seemed. Bruce wasn't so ignorant to completely disappear like that, not while there were unsupervised children and things to be potentially broken. Even if he didn't stay underfoot, he wanted to make sure he could tell what was going on.

That was what had lead him to the living room. It was an obvious place for him to hide; dinner was over but the adults still loitered, cleaning up dishes and finishing glasses of wine, doing the jobs Alfred did on nights when it was less crowded. The women refused to stand around while he worked, and assisted him in loading the dish washer, chatting up the old butler about recipes he'd distributed and the babies he so often saw. The formal dining room was sprawling, with a fireplace at one end, and it almost made the living room overlooked.

But although he wished "almost" was good enough, it hadn't been. He heard shuffling of feet and didn't give the person the satisfaction of turning; instead, he waited for them to sit or speak, whichever they chose to do first. The room was much like the others in the house; sparsely decorated, darkly-stained wooden bookcases lining the wall. A media center that held not only a sprawling television, but other various devices his adopted sons had aquired throughout the years. The news station flickered, muted, a weather report for Gotham sliding onto the screen.

"You know, Bruce..." He now knew who had decided to grace his presence, stifling a sigh as the redhead lowered herself onto the couch. She wasn't the easiest to deal with on usual terms; even Kory, with her broken English, treaded lightly. Iris had stumbled into their lives and had seemed to stick, for better or worse. She spoke before she thought about her words and acted impulsively. "Hiding in here isn't going to change anything. I mean, you can hang out until they all leave, but they're still family."

Even more than before, Bruce knew better than to let his own words get the best of her. The girl should have been in bed weeks ago, by both doctors request and his son's insistence. But she had treaded around their advisements; she needed to walk around and do things for herself, she had snapped. Doing a load of laundry or a thing of dishes wasn't going to bother her or the baby when she'd been living her whole life doing more strenuous things. It still took a toll on her, even if she refused to accept it, stubborn as could be - he could tell by the way her shoulders slumped and she reached up to rest a hand on her stomach.

"I did as requested. I stayed for dinner." A pause, an intake of breath. "Perhaps, you should take other's orders instead of enforcing your own."

"I'm not tired." The three words shot out of her mouth before she could stop herself, a knee-jerk response to something she had heard so commonly. "I'm only eight months, and it's only one baby. They didn't put Stephanie on required bed rest and she had two."

"Stephanie isn't the size of a preteen girl, Iris."

"How about instead of pushing us away, you try and love us for once?" Her snap was bitter, hands forming into fists. The conversation had veered suddenly, her gaze turning to face him. "I know you don't do social functions and I know you don't do the whole 'showing affection' thing, but heaven forbid, Kory has a baby and Stephanie has two and I'm having your first _legitimate_ grandchild and the best you can do is escape to watch the news?"

Bruce knew better than to even bother replying, even bother fighting back. For as impulsive and as clumsy over her words as the young woman was, he never told her how close she cut to the quick, how sharp and grazing her observations were. She had that going for her, at the least.

There was a loud sigh and she crossed her arms as well as she could, still fixing him with her gaze. He still hadn't removed his own from the television, commercial after commercial flashing, refusing to let her words echo in his mind.

"I know the history, and I know I don't need to relay it for you to make my point. But Bruce, we're all you have, and the jobs - none of us live normal lives most of the time, and anything could happen. Barbara- _Jason_-"

"What is your point, Iris?" His words were as biting as hers were tender, and when he finally tore his gaze from the television, he recognized that he had done just what he had objected to doing. He'd interrupted, he'd fought back against something he shouldn't have. It wasn't that he feared her in the least.

"I'm afraid... I'm afraid that one of these days, something is going to happen, and maybe even to both of us." She adverted her eyes only once. She was brave, he realized. Impulsive, but brave. She spoke to him like none of her boys had dared to do, honestly, even at the cost of it hurting. "...What'll happen if we're gone? Even if you're afraid to care for us- you need to care for _them_. For _my_ baby. For _your_ grandchild."

It became silent between the two of them. Irey wasn't crying; she didn't even look upset, hands smoothing over the thick cotton sweater she was wearing. It had seemed like she had stayed small for far too long, wearing the same clothes and barely complaining, but at the last possible moments, she had swollen. Looking at her now, he knew better than that; he just hadn't been paying attention, caring as closely about his son's wife or their child. Iris was the same Iris, still small and underweight, and it had just become more obvious with the baby she was carrying.

"I just... need to know that if I'm not here to take care of her, you will. Damian will. She needs to be loved." Her voice was barely a whisper now, and she had begun to weep, wiping at her eyes tentatively. "Even if I'm not the person you would have chosen for your son, it is still your grandchild. I-..."

It was astounding how much she observed, how closely she paid attention. She could tell how he kept people at arm's length and limited his interactions, never asking about things that could become a painful memory later. He knew Dick and Kory's daughter's name and her birth date, but nothing more. The twins were still mostly a mystery to him. They had been a miracle on their own, but he refrained from asking about either of them.

It was to keep himself safe. Bruce might have realized that it was hurting the rest of his family, but he never realized how much. He let out a sigh, taking another glance at the openly weeping girl on the other side of his couch. She was brave, she was foolish. She was impulsive and secretive and sly when she needed to be. Iris had broken his expensive glassware more than once and had intruded on his space more than once, swept his son off his feet with very little effort, and fit into the Robin costume when it was needed of her. She may not have been the perfect thing for his son, but he was far from perfect himself.

There were several moments of silence as Bruce struggled with himself, with the words he had kept in his chest and his mind for too long. She had been brave with hers and he wasn't even certain he could with his own.

"Just try." She murmured. Irey tried to stand, edging herself to the front of the couch cushion and pushing off of the back, flat shoes shuffling against the area rug. There was an ill-contained yawn as she slowly made her way to the doorway.

"I'll try," he said. He knew she heard him by how she paused, the door quietly shutting behind her. He could try.


	16. Chapter 16

It would take more time to count how many times she had taken his breath away than it would take to count the stars. It wasn't something Damian enjoyed speaking about. Even humoring the thought, when he was younger, seemed to be against his will. He wasn't going to let himself think so highly of someone who had done so little to prove themselves. Even Brown had, eventually, proven her worth and her place in the Mansion.

She had just appeared, a fluke perhaps, and had never left. It was his father's fault that any of this had began. He was nearly fifteen, and could no longer hang on his father's arm at balls like had done when he was ten; he could no longer disappear, either, for the public expected him to show himself and be a normal, adjusted young man. His father had told him to find a suitable companion for the next night out, and if Damian failed to do so, he would do it himself.

Damian had called his father's bluff, but it was one of the few times he wrongly did so. His father contacted one of his League colleagues who had a daughter his age and before the teen could object, she had appeared, prim and proper and simply _her._

It was the first time she had taken his breath away, but he would never admit it. His lack of conversation was because he was angry at his father, he would say, or because he simply found her uninteresting. Not because it was one of the first times a girl had come up and smiled and persevered; one of the few times they didn't wilt and give up at his sharp tongue and rude words. She knew better. She fought back.

She'd won.

Just like she had that first night, she seemed to render him speechless almost every time she was needed for a formal gala. His father certainly paid for the dresses she wore - the Wests were well off, but not as much so as the Wayne's, and he was certain it was his father's way of paying the girl back for having to put up with his son. She always seemed to know just what to show up in or how high her heels needed to be this time to keep up with his rapid growth spurt, and even if he never spoke of it, he was impressed by the girl who could tower around in three-inch heels until midnight and then meet him on their gargoyles later the same night. She was dynamic, like trying to grasp water between open fingers and figuring out how to catch it all. Even as they got to know each other he was sure he knew nothing.

By the time that he finally convinced himself that he had fallen in love, he had lost count of the times he'd become silent in her presence. (What a term, he spat. Falling implied you couldn't claw your way out of it, that you were stuck in a trap that would forever render you helpless. He could get out of this, he told his father, who had simply smiled. He wasn't going to let himself become so helpless because of some _woman._) It wasn't until his wedding day, until he saw the redheaded woman and her father walking down the isle, that he realized he was truly and hopelessly caught in her trap. He had walked right into it and had nothing to combat it. He stuttered over his vows, something that he _swore_ his father coughed over, and could barely bring himself to look her in the eyes.

He hadn't realized someone like had could mean so much, that he cared so much for her, until it wasn't certain she would live. Even in a life full of misconceptions and insecurities and flaws, he had foolishly thought she was stable. She was firm. She would last.

She had to. He had put this much trust into her to stick around that he had simply assumed she would be around as long as he needed her to be.

When his father's voice came over his communicator and had broken the news, had given his son the information in only a way his father could - solemnly, emotion in his throat - he had paused, and for once his breath hadn't been taken away because he loved her. It was because he had lost. Even the thug he was fighting paused at the look on the other man's face and didn't question when he swung away, appearing at the Manor with rain slicking his steps and his voice lost. He swore he had lost and he didn't know why, but he had resigned himself to the fact.

He could continue on without her. Damian held that to his chest and had begun to believe himself when he found the source of his father's voice, Pennyworth's voice, opening the door so viciously that it slammed against the wall.

This time his breath was taken away not because of her beauty, but because she _was._ She simply _was_ - alive, breathing, here. Even though her shoulders shook with sobs and there was an air of despair, she _was._

He had thought he couldn't care for someone so much, be captured in a trap so tightly that he believed she mattered. At this point, it wasn't a belief. He collapsed into a chair and covered his face and breathed, and breathed and breathed and was silent until her hand reached for his hair, running her fingers through it in a way his mother had done only once before.

"I'm so _sorry_, Damian." Her words were so soft and crushed, broken and scared, that he had none of his own. It was one thing for him to break down on his own time, but under the cowl and under the scrutiny of his family, he was certain he could hold up. He had to.

"I wanted this so badly…"

He bowed his head and let himself cry, relief and fear and emotion wracking his frame and stealing his words. He had no way to comfort her.

Damian was certain that hurt more than their loss.


	17. Chapter 17

Damian may have never spoke of her over breakfast or invited her for dinner, but Bruce knew of her. He knew of her well - her name and alias an easy search in the JLA system. It took no more than a few clicks for him to figure out all he needed to know, hospital records and school transcript and things the JLA recorded. Numerous times he had pulled up her file, times after long patrols and fights that left him tired and aching, letting her Justice League identification photos fill up his wall of computers.

She was literally the reincarnation of Wally, and the mere thought caused Bruce to frown, lip curling. Even as his first ward's best friend, he still did not approve of the Flash's antics. His heart was too big and too prominent in a profession that required a person to use their head, and that did not mesh well with his impulsive, foolish behavior. As he had grown up and taken the suit from Barry, it remained the same; the two Flashes could not have been more dissimilar and more alike. The blonde was quiet, much more so than the redhead, but their morality and the feeling in their actions mirrored each other.

That was what crowded his mind as he stared at the girl's pictures, taken in and out of her supersuit. If he had a less recent photo of her father, he was certain their facial attributes would overlap. The only feature that did not belong to her father was the slant of her eyes, something he knew came from her mother; everything else was strictly the Flash. He knew her stats nearly as well as his son's and Stephanie's, how she stood barely at five-two and her BMI was dangerously low for someone her size. He was certain he could pinpoint every freckle (it occurred to him that, at Damian's age, his son probably could as well - the frown deepened on his face at the thought) and scar on her other photo. It wasn't meant to be invasive, but the likelihood of imposters remained high, and knowing exactly who was and who wasn't remained an important aspect to the Justice League.

"Perhaps, Bruce, you should worry less on Impulse and worry more about Iris."

His voice was quiet, humbled, glancing up at the girl in her spandex shorts and bra. Her hands were on her hips and there was a coy smile on her face - something of Wally's, always preceding a poorly planned out idea - and he noticed, not for the first time, the sheer extent of her muscles. They rivaled Stephanie's, a small good in a majority of bad traits he saw in the girl.

Bruce clicked from her JLA information to her transcript, another piece of information that he had nearly memorized. It wasn't surprising to him that her science grades proved to be her highest out of the core classes - her math lacked and her English wasn't much better. She had trouble putting her words on paper, he mused, and probably thought too quickly to focus on a single mathematical equation. Her grade point average had a little to be desired, and her attendance showed that she skipped classes.

It hadn't taken more than that first glance at her records and her information to know she was not a fit for Damian. She was loud, reckless, careless. She cared too much about what people thought and was far too self-conscious at times (her school photo showed a streak of her that her JLA identification ID hadn't; a pause, a hesitation.) Her grades were sub par compared to what they could have been and her extracurriculars weren't ones meant for a superhero, someone who was trying to conceal an identity. She had foolishly put herself out there for four years as a cheerleader and three as a gymnast, and was obviously not worried about getting found out. She was too extroverted, too foolish, too many things that Bruce did not wish upon his son.

Maybe his opinion of her wouldn't have been so bleak if she wasn't Wally's daughter; maybe he would have given her some room to breathe and wouldn't track her as closely as he had been, if it wasn't so obvious that Damian cared for her in return. She was smart in that aspect, he would give her that; she never spoke of him online (her Facebook was full of photos and not a one of them involved his son) and was careful when they were seen out in public. But he knew better than to trust the girl not to mess up, and the fatal blow had come from searching her phone log. Damian was sneakier, far more sly, and that was, perhaps, the only reason why he hadn't found the photo on his phone - but he had found it on hers.

She was laying on his son's back, cheek against his, her breasts against his shoulder blades and a smile on her face. His expression was far more subdued, but he knew his son well enough to identify the blush on his cheeks and the slight lift of his lips. That had proved to be her flaw: She made him careless, comfortable. Carelessness was what caused injuries, and Bruce knew better than to let her ruin a perfectly good Robin, a perfectly good crime fighter.

That was what had brought Batman up to his son's room, an action long overdue and spurred by the photo. They had fooled around long enough and he knew not to let it fester any longer. If he knew Iris wouldn't speak of it, he could just tell her to extricate herself from their lives, but that wasn't the case; Damian would have to be the one to tell her no, to cut ties, before they became so attached that it was impossible to do.

His door was not locked nor shut, and Damian knew better than that. He pulled the door open a mere centimeters before he heard - he saw - the redheaded girl he loathed. He had known their relationship was deeper than his son would let on and it didn't surprise him that she allowed herself the freedom to flounce around Damian's room; what paused him in his tracks was the observation that his son was no better. He lounged on his bed, costume wrinkling on the floor, and seemed content just to watch Iris as she climbed onto his bed.

His jaw set. Bruce was prepared to open the door, to tell her to get dressed and leave, but there was a moment of hesitation. He was grudgidly giving her a moment of doubt, a chance to prove him wrong, and even as she snuggled up on her side, he didn't move. The sliver between the door and the door frame was just big enough that he he could watch without wondering, without predicting wrongly what his son would do; it seemed he didn't know his son as well as he thought, or perhaps her affect on him was stronger than it seemed. He didn't tense up - he didn't flinch. His leg intertwined with hers, barefoot against the back of her leg, and he let the girl's arms wrap around his torso.

Damian knew better than to sleep with his back to either the door or the windows; it was why he slept on his back or his stomach, hand gripping a knife. But neither of them seemed to mind their safety hazards, that his utility belt was on the floor, that their door wasn't locked. As he watched, the speedster leaned in, whispering (she knew how to whisper? In all the times he had been around her, she had been loud, brash. Never this quiet, this tender.) against his ear. Even with trained eyes, he couldn't pick out the words she said, and he could only guess what had left her lips when his son began to laugh.

If he wasn't deadly quiet before, the sound was enough to render him even further speechless. The soft chuckle was trailed by Iris's infectious giggles, hiding her nose in his neck, fingers against his back. There was only a blink of hesitation before Damian wrapped his arms around her, and Bruce realized Iris wasn't completely at fault. She had done things to Damian only she could; he had left an impression on her that only he could. He managed to quiet her, to soften her edges, and she had taught him to open up.

Bruce wasn't sure it was a positive improvement, even as Damian tilted his head up, lips against the girl's hair. She had made him vulerable in a way that only a lover could, and she wasn't entirely to blame.

Perhaps he did not loathe her as much as he believed; perhaps there was more to their relationship than he had ever seen. Bruce was certain of one thing: in order to let a breeze in, a window has to be first opened. Damian was at as much fault for opening up as much as Iris was for being his breath of fresh air.

Bruce shut the door, leaving the breeze behind him.


	18. Chapter 18

It was not a feeling he had experienced until her. It was a gnawing, sinking emotion, something like shame and something like hesitation, that pause when he knew he had to do something but did not have the heart to leave; it was that disgust and the taste in his throat when things happened and he was unable to be there for her. It was the feeling of his hands against his face, his elbows on his knees, of breathlessness and fault. Guilt seemed to just come along with her, and it seemed it would stick around, even when he wasn't certain she would.

It was that moment of hesitation when the cold air nipped at his bare skin, rising in the middle of the night to assist his father, when he pulled his suit on and he knew she was watching. It was that he could never bring himself to say good-bye or turn to look back at her, never voice that attachment that he shared so deeply with her, and even though he knew she wanted more, a reassurance of "I'll be fine," and a rake of his fingers through her hair was all he could give. He knew her well enough that he could picture her as he left, curled up under his thick blankets, skin ghostly bright after dark. He knew she did not sleep until he returned, and he was guilty of that.

It was the leftovers she kept when he didn't come home in time for dinner; it was the silence that spoke so strongly when his communicator rang, warning of danger, while they were under blankets and whispering to each other. It was knowing he couldn't be sure he would come home - and knowing she knew it also.

It was how he missed everything, how he had come home to her waiting up on him to break the news, having waited so long that she'd fallen asleep. How words on a paper and the grainy image that came with it didn't make him as elated as she would have. Gotham's crimes could wait, he tried to tell his father. He had a wife and things to attend to, and didn't they have other Robins that could be Batman for a night? Couldn't Dick take his place, couldn't Tim do his job for a night or two? But his father wouldn't allow his son's duties to be pushed off on someone else - he wouldn't allow his attachments be more important than his job; and he didn't see the errors in his ways until Iris delivered a sobbing, wailing baby girl, weeks early and weighing too lightly in her grandfather's arms. He had not been there for her, and he had not been the one to blame, but the guilt still clawed in his throat and left him speechless. He had not experienced such despair and such rage until her, and he could not remember a time when he had ever wanted to lay a hand on his father until her.

With his granddaughter cooing in the background, Alfred had to give the first Batman stitches, a bag of frozen vegetables pressed to Damian's eye. The only thing their fight had done was render them both silent, eyes locked, but the guilt was still there, and Damian was certain it was mutual. Bruce was at fault for being too distant and trying to make his son the same way, emotionless enough that any losses wouldn't affect his job; Damian was at fault for letting him. Even as he breathed loudly and bloodied fists clinched at his sides, even as his chest heaved from sadness and disgust and anger, Damian knew hitting his father hadn't changed a thing. They were both guilty of putting their jobs before their family, and it hadn't proved to be so evident until then. It had been a long time since Bruce had apologized to his son, but it wasn't needed now, not by the expression on his face. They both were hurting, they both were guilty. It was a feeling that came with loving someone, and Damian knew more than anyone that loving Iris was something that just happened, a trap to fall into and never get away from. Even his father had become a victim.

"There was nothing we could have changed to avoid this," Alfred hummed, his voice subdued and quiet, observing the father and son from afar. He knew the flaws of the Wayne family better than anyone in it, quietly watching and offering advice in a way that only he could. "No one could have expected her to go into labor so early. Things happen in odd ways. The only thing that can be done is comforting that poor girl, because she had gone through just as much as the both of you have tonight."

Damian knew that, but it did not cure the overwhelming sadness, the grief he experienced, throwing the bag of vegetables to the floor as he went back to his wife. Blame was pinned everywhere in his mind, but nothing could be changed. He had not been here when she needed him the most and for that he was guilty, he was ashamed, he was rendered speechless.

He was still silent when Bruce came upon them, leaning down to encompass his daughter-in-law. Under the pale blankets and against the Batman suit, she looked frail, tiny, eyes tired and dark, but she still managed a smile when he hugged her. It wasn't a form of contact they usually had, and as he pulled away, he let out a sigh.

"What is her name?"

It was four words, words that usual people spoke with ease and curiosity and earnest, words that Bruce spoke with the same emotion - Damian paused, breath caught in his throat, as the hulking man tried on a smile like an old suit he had forgotten he could wear. That gaze that Irey fixed him and the smile she returned, he knew things had changed, their guilt had evolved and fixed something they had refused to believe was broken.

Bruce was giving her a chance, was giving loving her a chance, because he realized there would be times that Damian couldn't be there, and someone had to be. Someone had to be.

"Juliet Jay," she said, her smile growing, her gaze fixating Damian in a way only she could. "Juliet Jay."

They would fix this, Damian knew, and things would be different.


	19. Chapter 19

It was an involuntary response, the way she felt her muscles tense seconds before the spasm took place, trying to raise hairs on her arms that she didn't have. It ran down her body, unsettling every part of her, putting her on edge and making her uneasy. By now they had become two parts of the same puzzle, interlocked and easily seen how they flowed together, every little detail ringing true and continuous.

"He will be okay."

A heavy weight, heavy emotions and thoughts seem to just drift away with her exhale. There was no more panic or fear, a simple dread coming with the new information. Alfred had been careful not to speak of Damian's wounds and his father had disappeared; probably to assist with his reconstruction. She stood from the overstuffed chair, walking past the butler with little response to his four words.

If she had ever noticed how cold the mansion was, it was now. A rush of chilling air followed her into the Wayne's make-shift operating room. It was too risky to bring the Robin to the hospital; his identity would have to be said to gather his blood type and medical history (of which there was little - a lot of his operations and doctor visits were simply done at the manor.) Even the quietest doctor seemed to have chatty nurses.

It had taken very little for the word to get out that Damian's fiance had miscarried a baby they didn't even know she was having, after having collapsed at a press conference meant to announce their wedding. As much as Irey hated to admit it, her reputation mattered little in Gotham. Damian's mattered, and keeping Robin a secret was more important than how the headlines portrayed her and their relationship.

She took a seat next to the bed, rubbing at one of her eyes. There was a wad of bandages on his side. Even she could tell he had managed to get stabbed in the sliver of space between his utility belt and the end of his vest, and the weapon probably wasn't the cleanest blade. Gotham was known for it's dirty crooks and their dirtier tricks. Damian was lucky if it wasn't rusted.

It could have been worse. Even as she looked over his bruises and the splint on one of his fingers, the IV drip and his cracking lips, it could have been worse. She let out a sigh, pulling her knees up and rubbing her socked feet together, another shiver wracking her thin frame.

It could have been worse. He was still here and life would still go on, press conferences adjusted, excuses made. His appendix ruptured, perhaps. A bad case of food poisoning. She could take the fall for him if he asked, and would even if he didn't.

He was worth that much.


	20. Chapter 20

There was an air of solemnness, of vulnerability and sadness, of confused perplexity as to what had happened. There was loitering and there was quiet murmuring, fidgeting and quiet tears. Even the silence has an impact, because words didn't need to be said for him to see the affect the loss had on everyone in attendance. Shoulders shook and tissues were wadded and those who knew how to conceal their grief, did, conversing with others through muted nods and handshakes, their grasp cold and clammy and heartless, lost.

Even Stephanie had lost her voice, sitting at the very end of the row next to her line of brothers and her father. They were all dressed well, appropriately, and not a word had been said between any of them as people began to show up and congregate and sign the guest book. Nothing could be said that hadn't been already, but the words still floated above their heads, waiting to be spoken, to be heard, to be acknowledged.

There was no minister and there was no formal ceremony; even though he had mostly outgrown his rebellious phase, Dick knew he wouldn't have wanted someone dictating his life, sprinkling religion where it didn't belong. There was no minister and there wasn't even a podium. Maybe they all knew their facade was just that, and any words actually spoken would break through their porcelain masks, cracking until there was nothing left.

And that was exactly what she was, that last straw, that punch that shattered everything in their path. The Bat family had learned long ago how to hide their pain and suffering, how to isolate themselves from the shrapnel that came along with losing someone, but they had never learned how to stop the wrecking ball that was Iris West. She had appeared on Damian's hand out of the blue, after months of mis-worded lies and flashes of her on security films, and like a whirlwind, they took off. They were young and reckless and Damian knew better, he always had known better, but even his father's best training had fallen on deaf ears: he hadn't been the one suffering. Bruce had never expected it to occur the other way around, that his son's life would be swiped, and had fully expected Iris to die and leave his son heartbroken.

He had never expected this. Maybe it was because he had never wanted it to happen this way, but he hadn't given it a thought that of course she would be the one to survive an attack. It would take brute force to kill her, and if it wasn't her heart or her brain, her body worked fast enough to heal it that she was nearly invincible. He remembered the detonation and he remembered how she bled, how she bled and bled and bled because she couldn't heal quick enough to keep up with the blood loss, and he remembered the way his son's voice croaked and whispered and hoped.

_ "Save her."_

Bruce had never thought that it end up like this, a sick and twisted ending to a story he had never wanted to finish, and he refused to meet the redhead's gaze as she approached him. It had been her he had been able to save. It shouldn't have been.

"Bruce…"

Her voice reminded him so much of his son's, the cracked, dry words stuck in her throat, nervous and overflowing and trapped. She was trying, he recognized with a start. She was trying on their mask, trying to make it fit securely, but at the last moment she fumbled and dropped it and it shattered. Her shoulders began to shake and her eyebrows darted together, wrapping her arms around the man's torso and openly weeping. She had tried.

"Oh, Bruce. _Bruce_."

"Don't—"

"He was — he was going to marry me some day, wasn't he?" He wanted to make her stop, his teeth grinding and fists forming, wanted her to stop swinging punches at the mask he had put on so carefully. He could feel the knot in his throat and the fractures begin to form, and the final blow was when she grabbed a handful of his jacket, holding the large man as if he were her lifesaver, the only thing from keeping her drowning. His arms moved slowly, mechanically, securing their hold on the shorter woman. Yes, he wanted to say. He'd brought it up a few missions before, how he'd gone and put a down payment on a ring after getting his tux fitted for Stephanie's wedding. Bruce had scoffed at the idea - why put a chuck of money down when they had enough to pay in cash? - until he realized that Damian had wanted to be sure it was alright with him, with her father. He was going to marry her.

"I'm so sorry."

One of his hands met the curly locks, resting on the back of her head, and the other wrapped around his waist.

She wasn't the only one who was drowning.


	21. Chapter 21

"Something's not right here."

There was a sudden breath, a hush, and she saw him out of the corner of her eyes as he glared. Her words had been spoken too loudly, with too much certainty, in a place where she was the sidekick and he was the superhero. It was not her call to make, she knew. She was here to watch; she was here for brute strength and agility. She was not here to make choices and be the Batman.

"… Father." The man's voice was soft, almost hesitant, but laced with determination. Even with her back turned, she saw the expression on his face, knew how his eyebrows drew together and how he bent his fingers, not quite a fist. He tapped the side of his cowl twice, drawing in a deep breath as he looked at the screen that projected. "Father. I am uncertain that this was on the map you gave me."

"The blueprints should be correct." Even Irey heard the aging Wayne's voice, sharp and crisp in the shallow hallway, turning her head only slightly to listen to the two speak. She kept her gaze forward, watching the security feed in the wrist of her - Damian's - glove. It was an outdated device, but no one had expected another Robin to take Damian's suit. It had been by need and not by want that she had suited up in his old outfit, smugly finding that it mostly fit. She had new boots ordered, but the rest was good enough for a time-to-time job.

"They are not." There was an exhale, and she took a gamble, turning to look at the cape and the blue-lighted face of her companion. His eyebrows were pulled, a frown on his face, carefully tapping on the projected screen ahead of him. "This hallway is a dead-end. It was meant to lead to the bank vault door. How old is this blueprint?"

"A year."

"Damian…" Irey's voice was soft, still facing his back. She glanced back at her screen, knowing too well the building was abandoned. It was the basement and the floors that descended below that they were investigating, and it would be far too suspicious for such a grand plot for people to be guarding a building that was meant to be condemned. They had bugged the security feed so it was frozen to any screens but Iris's, which flickered with the time and nothing else. There was a sliver of certainty that finally seemed to break through his thoughts, turning his head only slightly to peer back at her.

"I don't… What is suppose to be below these floors? What are we here for?"

She knew the answer, that she wasn't meant to know. She was a temporary sidekick, and giving her too much information was liable to get her in trouble. Not a single newspaper or online hero forum had figured out the identity of the redheaded Robin, one they assumed to be another boy. They speculators were incredibly intelligent, and they didn't take long to estimate her height and weight; thankfully, their blathering stayed online and hadn't surfaced anywhere else, leaving every day people oblivious to the fact that the newest Robin was not who they assumed.

"DNA," Damian murmured, shaking his head. "They have been robbing hospitals around America, trying to find DNA that is abnormal, and link it to a superhero. From there, they can multiply it, or find their weaknesses. We are lucky that the JLA knows better than to let us go to a regular hospital when we are injured."

Never before had she questioned their missions, but never before had they been this dangerous. She gave up spying, turning completely to face Damian. A step was all it took for her to brush his shoulder, peering at the blueprints that were projected, shaking her head. He tapped the screen, zooming on on their location.

"There is meant to be an old bank vault two feet from this wall. The vault is said to contain the passage way down to the lower levels." A hesitation again, offering her another glance. He drew his lip between his teeth - a habit he'd picked up from her - a sure sign he was contemplating how to proceed.

The end of the hallway didn't look poorly constructed, or hastily put up. The wall color matched and there was no seam to indicate new drywall. She tilted her head, reaching forward, raking her fingers across the paint as Damian spoke softly to his father, his head bent to the blueprints. A loud tick sounded and at once Damian's head jerked up, his projection sputtering and disappearing, leaving the two in near complete darkness.

"_Iris_—"

Another tick and she flinched at his touch, at how he yanked her back. The third sounded, and before the noise could end, the wall was exploding, light and heat appearing from behind the fake wall. There was no time for preparation or for fear; a deafening boom followed the explosion, windows shattering, walls caving. There was fire licking at the walls and concrete falling, and as quickly as it began it was over, the affect of the detonation taking over in the roaring flames and the crumbling stone, the wail of the security alarm and Bruce's voice talking over the chaos.

"Damian? _Damian_."

"Father—" It was a croak, barely a whisper, the man's voice no longer there. It was replaced with fear, with emotion that had long been stored away and hidden, coming out in waves and in gasps as he spoke. There was the sound of rocks being moved, of the attempt of movement, trying to turn his head and peer past the smoke and the flames that clung at the edges of his vision. He knew what his father was thinking, what was going on simultaneously across town, a fear so similar and vastly different on Bruce's mind. Damian knew he worried he had lost another Robin, another son.

_Robin_.

"_Dad_." The word was so rarely spoke on his lips that it was foreign, and even as his vision swam and his stomach churned, limbs protesting, he knew she had to have gotten the brunt of the explosion. She had been in front of him, and the Robin suit lacked the same protection that the Batman one had. She had her speed - he had never assumed she would have needed the same armor he had. "Iris."

"I'm on my way. I'm on my way. Hold on." The words in his ear were clipped, and he faintly heard the squeal of tires. For a moment he was sure it was here and not at the mansion, but his head was playing tricks on him. It was at least ten miles from the Manor, and the Friday night traffic could make his arrival take longer. Damian forced himself to sit, tried to sit, but while his drive and determination continued, his body could not. He could feel the sharpness of broken bones in his arm as he tried to put weight on it, the throb that encompassed his eye, the pain that swirled his vision and made him want to wretch. There was blood in his mouth and a hard piece against his tongue, probably a broken tooth. That was just the beginning of his injuries, he knew, grunting as his arm gave out and he collapsed back onto the concrete floor.

"Iris." He coughed, spitting out the tooth, trying to regain his voice. "_Irey_!"

There was no words, but he could hear the wheezing, the pained breathing from only a foot away. Why hadn't he seen her body before? Why was he so unable to see her when he had sat up? He paused for only a second, suddenly jerking in an attempt to roll over onto his stomach, the movement and the blinding pain causing his sight to nearly disappear. It wasn't until that movement that another throb began, blood wetting his fingers.

He allowed a glance to the gaping wound he knew was there, the concrete piece he knew was digging deeper into his stomach, but there wasn't any hope for him. He could feel it, the gut feeling that had washed over him. Removing the piece would cause him to bleed out. Keeping it in would cause internal bleeding. He was damned either way, and it was only a moment that he fought with the idea that if he was careful, he knew he could rip his cape off and dig the concrete shrapnel from his stomach. He could apply pressure and wait for his father.

Maybe he would have fended for himself if it had been someone else, if he couldn't hear the breathing of his comrade beside him. Maybe months ago he would have let her die. He reached for the nearest block of concrete, dragging his broken body closer toward the ragged noises she was making, teeth grinding together.

"Three minutes."

His father's voice rang out, tense and afraid and hopeful - he knew it was there somewhere, on the tip of his tongue or the back of his throat. Damian reached up and pulled his cowl off, feeling the sharp line of a burn across his cheek, and he blindly groped for the girl he knew was there.

"_Irey_—…"

As soon as he saw he knew what had happened, that the large piece that had found it's way into his stomach had been through hers first. She was smaller, closer to the explosion, and it had ripped through her ride only to lodge into his. Her eyes were open and her hand was pressed against the torn flesh, blood oozing from her fingers and her side. She wasn't consciously there, he could tell by the vacant look in her eyes, dragging himself closer and putting a hand on her shoulder. He shook it, forcing his shattered arm to act, pressing against her hand that covered her injury. It was that contact, it seemed, that broke her from whatever had snatched her consciousness, a shock of air raising her chest further than it had been, eyes widening.

It was the agony in her scream that broke him. He knew her body couldn't keep up with the injury, couldn't properly heal it when it was clogged with dirt and pebbles and sharp pieces of concrete, and he had no way to help her. There was nothing he could do. He felt the slickness of blood before he noticed her hand on top of his, squeezing, trying to slow the bleeding.

He heard the car's engine and the distant wail of sirens, the door slamming and the crunch of his father's boots as he ran to the collapsed building. He removed his hand from her shoulder, trying to push himself up, trying to signal them, but there was nothing there but the sway in his vision and the throb in his stomach, against his eye, in his arm. There was nothing but the tears on her cheeks and the nails digging into his hand, the blood that came in waves from the littlest Robin.

Damian barely felt himself lay back down, nor the way his head thudded against the floor. The vision in his one eye completely disappeared and his view from the other seemed to shimmer, a television trying to get a picture, hand groping to make sure she was still there.

"Damian—"

His father's voice came too late, a cry that whispered into his ears.

"_Save her_."


	22. Chapter 22

Bruce had felt it when he stumbled upon his first Robin and the ones succeeding. He had felt it, deep and hidden among pessimistic tendencies and realistic chances, when any of his children were injured and fought for their lives. He hadn't known it was so prominent, that there was a name for the feeling that he held dear and kept under lock in key, to keep it from interfering with his work, until his children began having children.

It was Dick and Koriand'r's baby girl that came first, mixblooded and full of life, fists swinging and a turquoise tint to her Tamaranian eyes. He had felt it then, that morning of cancelled appointments and press conferences, a long day that bled into an even longer night. He had never realized how easily a life could be brought in just as it could be taken out, and it was a fact that hit closer to Dick than himself, watching his eldest pause and rethink his actions. They had never been ones to kill, but no longer did he simply go into a fight swinging. It was something he had taught Damian not to do, only to realize he had been doing it all along.

Jason and Stephanie's boys were second and third, gifted with dark hair and vibrant eyes, a seamless split between their parents. He had felt it then as well - that evil could be temporary, could be passed and overcame. Jason had come from a rough start and Stephanie's past wasn't an easy story to tell, but problems could be solved, wounds healed. They had not given up just because cards had been dealt in another's favor - none of his children had. Perseverance was a trait he instilled in all of his sidekicks and he was certain it would be passed down onto his grandchildren.

It was Damian and Iris's child that made him realize there was a word to go with the feeling he felt, the way his shoulders slumped after worrying, how he could breath a sigh of relief after the assumption of tragedy. After years of hiding and keeping his emotions in check, she had come along and rattled himself and his son, leaving nothing the same in her wake. His other children's children had been healthy, able to be held without much fear of breaking. She was small and fragile, and he had watched as Damian picked her up from his wife's arms, his Batman suit tattered and blood-stained.

It was hope, he realized. Among the criminals and the Joker's of the world, of the bad that his children had grown out of, the circumstances they could not control, there were the ones who had it in them to do right. He had hope for the future and who would protect it; he had faith in the underweight, redheaded little girl, and the dark-haired boys. He had faith in Kori's little girl, the one who learned how to fly before she could walk, and how they would take care of Gotham in his wake.

He had hope.


	23. Chapter 23

It amused him that almost ten years earlier, she had asked him to do the same thing, nearly a mirror activity. At the time, he had snorted and shook his head and wondered why someone could be so careless as to waste their time playing with water when they could be swimming laps or working on agility. He had questioned himself - asking why he bothered and why did he let her keep coming up with and promptly asking to do such ridiculous things.

He wouldn't be caught dead throwing water around in the manor's indoor pool; not with his father surveying the footage every night. That was a foolish waste of time and of energy, even though he knew, in the back of his mind, it would probably include her bathing suit (or lack there of — but he wasn't going to let himself think like that. Not around _her_, anyway). He told her no.

It was humbling, the memory, knowing that he was doing little more now than he would have been then, watching as his stumbling baby girl splashed in a fish-printed plastic pool. It couldn't have been more than a few inches tall and the water was even more shallow than that, and he could feel the summer heat warm his back as she stomped and scooped and overall enjoyed herself with the same toys she used in the bath tub. He had made sure to put the pool under the looming shade of one of the manor's back yard trees, wary of Irey's complaints that had followed the last time they had come out - "_She might not be as white as I am, D, but she's still gonna get burnt if she stays out in the sun too long."_

Not for the first time, Damian realized this was one of the few things he was irritably ill-equipped at, knowing what she needed and liked and how to properly make sure she didn't get sunburnt. It seemed like Irey was always correcting him at one thing or another, how deep he made her bath water or how hot he warmed her food, how he didn't make her sit down when she slurped on popsicles. She always seemed right and it left him in an embarrassed stupor, even though he knew he knew no better. He had been the youngest Robin and didn't much care to hold Dick's baby girl or Brown's dark-haired twins.

He watched his little girl stumble out of the pool (_"She could fall, you know…"_) and make her way over, dripping auburn tresses hanging in her face and creating pathways down her skin, and Damian knew just what she wanted as she placed a hand on his knee and gazed up at him.

"Come pay."

His sixteen-year-old self would have been ashamed, embarrassed, if he knew he would ever have been caught in inch-deep water, squeaking bath toys and listening to a two-year-old babble. As it was, he was pleased enough with Irey's amused stare from where she sat outside the pool, knowing that he had done nothing to displease her at the moment.


	24. Chapter 24

Wally should have been proud of her, of him, what they'd cobbled together and managed to grow. He should have felt at peace with the fact that someone as well off as the Wayne's were to take his daughter as one of their own; not that the West's weren't well off, but they weren't as so as Bruce and his family were. Anything she could have ever wanted or needed was right there and he was certain she would be happy.

But it still gnawed at him, in the same way he was certain it gnawed at Linda, when breaking news of shootings or terrorist attacks were brought to her to announce. Being hours away - a blink away - from where they had always lived, Wally wasn't sure if he could deal with the constant stress of hearing bad news in Gotham and worrying if she was involved. If he was involved.

The only thing he hated more than the idea of losing her was her losing him. The league had seen, constantly, how a death can overcome even the most stoic, the strongest of people, tearing them down like they were nothing. Irey was not the type of person to keep anyone at arm's length, to make sure to put up some sort of wall in case of tragedy. She was open and caring and too concerned, in too deep, and he knew Damian would leave behind an empty shell if he died.

But what was he to do? He had tried. Both him and Bruce had tried, setting limits and watching over them carefully, even though neither of them saw eye-to-eye. Bruce didn't think highly enough of his daughter, of the superpower that she had inherited and had no choice but to embrace. To him, she was too impulsive, too shallow, too this and too that.

But Wally knew better; he knew Bruce saw what did also, the way his little girl sucked people in and made them love her. She was infectious, she was intelligent and witty and just scatterbrained enough to be endearing, clumsy on her feet and with her words. Bruce didn't like her because he was afraid he would, and once he realized he had fallen in love with her as much as Damian had, he chose to pick at her flaws rather than embrace her strengths. It was what kept him at arm's length, kept him from getting hurt like he knew she would if anything happened to the ones she loved.

It seemed no matter what they did or what they tried to avoid, it was inevitable. No matter the risks, no matter how often Wally had made her pause and wonder, no matter how Bruce tried to reassure in his jabs that she was asking for trouble. When his eyes met the Batman's as he walked his daughter down the isle, they both knew nothing that they had done would change their children's minds.

They both knew neither of them were children anymore, and their choices were theirs to make. As Irey released her father's hand and squeezed Damian's, they had hope that neither would die before the other.

That was all they could do.


	25. Chapter 25

"You do understand that I have a speech to present in less than ten minutes?"

"Damian, you know me better than that."

The Wayne wasn't sure he knew her at all, not by the way she grasp his hand or how she lead him down the hallway, the same way he did to her during patrols. It was different, he observed, letting someone take you where they pleased. Certainly he was use to being a sidekick, but he was never one to be bossed around, and now as Batman, it was a submissiveness he was unused to.

Perhaps he could get more used to it, he decided, glancing at her well-tailored dress. He could let her lead more often, if this was the view he was to get when he did. Was she so pleased with her view most nights?

Damian let out a grunt as she suddenly stopped, her hands on his suit jacket, and promptly pushed him against the wall. For a fraction of a second, he wondered if this woman was not his - perhaps she was like Miss Martian; Grayson had spoken of beings who could change their appearance and mannerisms to get the upper hand. But he knew he was not that foolish, for someone would have to have observed Iris in rather intimate settings for them to get her expressions perfect, as well as he knew them. And he knew this expression well, the way she tilted her head down, her crooked smile.

"Eight minutes, West."

"Mmmhm."

He couldn't contain his own grin, one he knew was specifically reserved for her. He tilted his head back as she got nearer, if only just to watch her expression for a few seconds longer, the way she parted her lips and breathed against his cheek in a way that always caused him to make the first move, to turn his head and press his lips against hers. If it weren't for the obscenely high shoes she wore, Damian was certain she would have to stand on her toes, or have him lean down; but she was at a perfect height, head just meeting his collarbone, enough so that she had to press against him and tilt her head back to get the kiss she wanted.

When he leaned back even further, the motion meant to be teasing, she caught his lip between her teeth, hands still on his chest. She tightened her grip, pulling him down ever so slightly. Perhaps he could convince her to wear heels this height more often.

She was good at playing games; she had learned it from him. But he was always better, catching her off guard as he skimmed a hand over the back of her dress. A squeeze and a gasp later and his lip had been released, her kisses becoming quicker, more feverish. She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head down enough that she no longer had to press so harshly against him, use him as leverage.

"Damian."

The voice came from down the hall, a warning, and as quickly as their affair had started, it was over. She lingered on his lips, settling back on her feet completely, and did nothing more than grasp his hand as the Wayne heir's father appeared, turning the corner.

"You'll do fine," Irey said, her voice light, making it seem as if they had been talking the entire time. She squeezed his hand - maybe she was better at this game than he had thought, watching as a completely different smile wove onto her features, less amused, less sexy than before, but open and caring and a little fake. When she leaned forward and kissed his cheek once, he knew why he loved her so much.

As she lead him to his father, Damian realized his view wasn't a bad thing, either.


	26. Chapter 26

Irey heard a sigh from the driver's seat, listening as Batman leaned back against the leather, keys in his hand, casting her a wayward glance.

"I am not particularly looking forward to the interrogation tonight," he said, voice booming in the small space. She knew what he meant - the way his father always asked how things went, when he already knew, having surveillance the security cameras as their night went on. Once he was finished with his son, he would swing on Irey, his words much more biting. She'd gotten the point by now that she wasn't exactly the greatest Robin to have ever donned the suit, but she hadn't set out to be.

"We don't _have_ to go in," she said, her tone causing his eyebrows to pull together. Irey casually glanced away, thinking about it, just as Damian turned to face her.

"What are you insinuating?"

"Exactly what I said," she shrugged, gazing at him. He'd removed his cowl as soon as the Batmobile had parked in the garage, and for one moment he felt damned. He'd forgotten how hard it was to read his own Robin mask.

He reached over, swiping the green mask from her face, revealing a look that matched her smile - tempting, coy, a little teasing. It took little for her to maneuver around the gear shift and the middle console, something he knew he was _very_ unlikely to be able to do himself. For a moment, Damian marveled at her smallness, how easily she fit through tight spaces. He was certain none of the boys who wore the suit were as agile as she was.

It was a fleeting thought as her knees dug into the sides of his seat, sitting herself down on his lap. It took little from the Robin to make him lean in, pressing a kiss to her lips that was quickly received, slick gloved hands weaving into his hair. His own found her hips, pulling her forward in a way that made her gasp.

"Wasn't such a bad idea, huh, boy wonder?"

Even as a smile graced her lips, Damian couldn't help but shake his head, a nickname older than they even were. She leaned back, getting a good look at his face, but he followed her, his larger torso pressing against hers to seek out another kiss.

Damian hadn't realized he'd leaned so far until the horn went off against Irey's back, causing her to flinch, his lip caught between her teeth. For several moments they sat and stared at each other, awaiting the footsteps that would surely make sure the redheaded girl wouldn't don _his_ suit again.

"I'm asleep," she said hurriedly, pushing open the car door. "I'm asleep. You're —"

"Damian."

Damian wasn't certain what he was more amazed at; Iris's acting as she slumped into his arms, or the white lie that rolled off his tongue, carrying his girlfriend past his father.

"Fell asleep on the ride back," he said, watching Irey's eyelids flutter. "We can go over surveillance tomorrow, correct?"

"Yes. Promptly."

He was certain his father knew more than he was letting on, but he didn't mind getting to carry the near weightless body back to his room to listen to her laugh as he shut the door.

"We're _awful_ actors! Oscars' for both of us."

"Hush, Iris. You're suppose to be asleep."

"_Make_ me."


	27. Chapter 27

_Damn_. It seemed Iris was more intuitive than he had ever believed - or perhaps he was getting careless, having been out of the cowl for so long. He could almost feel her approaching, the dread that came with her soft footsteps or her careful chatter with Alfred, and with an overwhelming feeling of defeat, Bruce knew he was too slow to escape without her knowing. The scrape the wheels of his chair made would be too obvious. His sigh told her enough.

"I'm sorry." She spoke quietly, with a hesitance that was both foreign on her tongue and to his ears. Iris had never been to slow down, to show complete awareness and be as completely _human_ as she acted at the moment. Even though he knew her metabolism probably throbbed faster than he could think, there was a sleepy slowness, carefulness that made him pause, adverting his eyes from the wall of surveillance cameras, carefully tracking his son's every move.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, Iris?"

It had been a different experience with each of his daughter-in-laws. Tameranian women were unlike their Earth counterparts in more than physical appearance and ability to pick up languages; It had been a learning curve for both Koriand'r and Dick, figuring out what would be unusual but similar, and after an extended pregnancy, they produced a gentle-faced mix of the both of them. By the time the manor had settled down, it seemed, Stephanie had come forward with similar news, and in little more than a span of a year, Bruce had become the grandfather to not only Mar'i but a set of twin boys.

Maybe it was because Dick was older, because their relationship had lasted longer before their wedding and the announcement of her pregnancy. It could have been that he had gone though this before with Stephanie, who was level-headed and informed, who had known what her symptoms entailed before even Kori had figured it out herself. The thought occurred to him that, perhaps, it had been because Damian was his youngest. But Bruce had put all of that aside when he looked at the girl as she lowered herself into what was usually his son's chair.

Kori stood taller than even himself, and Stephanie's stature rivaled Tim's. If he had to guess, (which he didn't, because he knew all of his children's measurements.) he knew that Dick's wife was an even foot taller than Irey. The last time that she had donned the Robin suit months prior, she had weighed in at a hundred and twenty point four, all muscle. He could easily call her his littlest Robin, and she would probably keep that title for as long as he lived, even as she sat, fingers rapping against the swell of her stomach. Years of a breakneck metabolism and her gymnastics had most likely stunted her growth, because her mother was five foot five and her brother was the same height as Wally's. He had no other explanation for her size.

"I can't sleep," Irey said, tilting her head, rust strands falling into her face. When she finally turned, adjusting herself in the seat to cross her legs beneath herself, the light of the screens tinted her skin gray. "I don't like sleeping when I don't know where he is."

He had always assumed her lack of attendance at breakfast was less of a lack of sleep and more of a laziness. Bruce knew it was long past due that he stopped chastising the girl for simply _being_ when he didn't even know her as well as his son did. It seemed the flaws came just as easily as her good habits and traits, and he used them to keep himself in check. Damian might have loved her, but he didn't have the luxury of being blinded.

She hummed softly, and he watched as her shoulders slumped at the sight of his son, relief relaxing her features. The corners of her lips twitched, her hand stilling, another expression changing just as quickly as before, a stop light without a proper pause. "And... it's been weird. I don't know how to describe it. I've been... _anxious_." Her words hung heavy in the air, a conversation he felt no need to be having when she was probably blathering out of exhaustion. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his fingers paused once more, lips parting.

"If having Damian take smaller shifts would ease your worry, it could be arranged," he said, his voice a mix of something he wasn't sure he could pinpoint. "Tim is probably available to take the cowl for a few hours a week-"

"No." It was a definitive word, something Iris was more likely to skirt around than actually say, listening to her sigh and rake her fingers through her hair. "If Damian knew working worried me, he wouldn't want to do it at all, especially not at the moment. It gets us away from each other a few hours a day." A second of silence before a bit of laughter, and he looked over in time to watch the corners of her eyes crinkle, dimples in her cheeks deepening. "Heaven forbid if your son was _any_ more protective, I would take the cowl just to get away from him. It's almost unbearable." Her words were kind and fond, shaking her head and casting the same sincere, caring look to him. It was enough to make him realize he hadn't taken a good look at her in a long time - a _good_ look, not condescending, not judging her for mistakes she made as Impulse or as Robin.

Even though the thoughts would never be spoken, he observed that she had certainly grown as a person since he had last spent time with her. She was still young - she was still _Iris_, and nothing would change that. But just as much as she had lighted a spark in his son, showing him a sense of humor and how to take jokes and relax, all things Bruce had not instilled himself... he had affected her. They both had, softening her edges, making sure she didn't stumble so often over her words and her thoughts. Her outbursts were less often but her stubborn streak still reigned. They had affected each other in ways both positive and negative, and he had only seen the way she had changed his son. The idea had never occurred to him that he would do the same to her.

"Bruce." His gaze shifted from where he'd been staring to her, to the change in her posture and expression and how she knitted her eyebrows, fixated on the screen. He turned, watching the shadow that had appeared behind his son, the grainy security film capturing it's motions, the object in their palm. He heard the screech of her chair wheels - "_Bruce_!" - and turned away from the wall of monitors. He caught a glimpse of blue, a similar gait, before his gaze settled on the open-mouthed girl that had been keeping him company.

The washed-out shade on her face was no longer from the film on the screen, panic and terror gripping her, taking her to a place that was beyond rational thought. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, to reassure her that it wasn't as it seemed, that she had looked at a wrong moment and jumped to conclusions, he knew the seconds she had seen were enough. He watched as her expression twisted, the wide-eyed fear replacing with firmly shut eyes, her teeth coming together, jaw setting. He recognized it as pain, and before she could reach out, he had already, acting on impulse as he carried her to the infirmary.

It wouldn't be until a day's worth of chaos later that he would realize she affected him just as much as she had his son - that thoughtless action, impulsivity, could be mirrored and held dormant until it suited it's use. It wasn't carelessness, it was care, it was fear and worry and heartfulness that lead to impulsive acts, not reckless abandon. She had never acted out of foolishness, but out of love for people and causes and things he would never know about. She acted with her heart, but not ignorantly so.

He still had much more to learn about Iris West, and Bruce wasn't certain he would ever entirely solve that mystery.


	28. Chapter 28

Damian had never been one to back down from a challenge, to let foolish words go unpunished when they didn't need to be spoken. He had always believed in the notion to keep your mouth shut unless you had something worthwhile to say, and maybe that was his excuse for being a little more ruthless to the villains who had never learned how to stay silent. When he was younger, he knew he talked when it wasn't necessary, making meetings uncomfortable with his snark and hateful words, but age won over eventually and he learned to watch his tongue. Not everyone had.

"_Make_ me."

It was her common retort to things he commanded, whether it was for her to get dressed after a shower ("_You're distracting me, Iris_.") or when he tried to get her to sit still so he could asses her wounds, two words that he had never found the proper response to. When he was younger, it was easier for him to find words to say, threats to make to her aloof words, but time and time again he noticed that it had no affect on her. His death threats and descriptions on how he could disembowel her if she wouldn't stay quiet, _Iris_, we're on a stake out, _shut up_, they gained nothing but a coy smile and a shrug.

Maybe she had known before he had; after all, he was known for being a little ignorant to relationships and feelings when he was a teenager. Maybe she could tell what kind of affect she had on him before he even had, but eventually, the fuming snarls and threats toward her injuries disappeared from his lips and his thoughts. It left nothing but a kind of silent emotion, something he couldn't place or put a description to, a feeling that rolled and licked at his throat and caused him to bring his hands into fists when she smiled.

It wasn't until he threw it back at her that he understood, sitting on his bed as she grabbed the first aid kit. One of their first missions as Batman and Robin and it had gone wrong, something both him and Bruce had expected; the first few were always shaky, and it was no different coming from a girl who was so use to running instead of fighting. She had evaded injury, ducking and escaping when he had instructed her to stay, but the simple-minded thugs had laid a punch on him. It was nothing - a cut in his eyebrow caused by a ring, but he could tell by how she acted that she felt responsible. The fimiliar sting of alcohol caused him to jerk back and she hissed, putting a hand on the back of his neck to keep him still.

"Be still!"

"Make me."

There was the silence that always followed her when she said it; he watched as her lips parted, pausing, and he noticed the same expression, the way she hesitated and how her eyes darted, the rolling emotion that he constantly felt but had no words for. But unlike him she didn't stay silent, didn't take her words as they were, and he felt her nails dig into his skin as she leaned forward. There was a word for it, a saying to put with the tension that hung in the air every time she said it and all the times he hadn't acted, and as soon as she pressed her lips to his and he pulled her onto his lap he knew what it was.

"I'll make you, all right."

It was lust that clawed at his throat and left him wordless when she spoke, when she acted as if nothing he said ever bothered her. He had always assumed it was hate or frustration, but he knew what those felt like and the words that came with them, and this was different, it was tender and aggravated and a sense of finally, among simple kisses and adverted eyes. It was the cumulative feeling of knowing she wore nothing under her Impulse suit and little else under her Robin suit, of knowing that she knew he noticed, the feeling when he caught her watching him with that foreign look and her lip drawn between her teeth.

"I'd love to see you try, Iris."

It was the grin that lit up her face that made him remember she wasn't one to back down from challenges, either.


End file.
